


Cin Vhetin

by aeryntheofficial



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, Clan Leader Din Djarin, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:29:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28678932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeryntheofficial/pseuds/aeryntheofficial
Summary: After the Mandalorians save the reader’s village from a tyrannical leader, her father teaches her the trade of blacksmithing and forging beskar. Ridiculed by those in her village and shy in nature, the reader never expected to catch the attention of Clan Leader Djarin…or an arranged marriage.
Relationships: Clan Leader!Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 93





	Cin Vhetin

You were just a child when the Mandalorians came.

You watched from the small window of the attic you and your parents were hiding in as they came tearing through the town. They didn’t come here for you though. Not like the stories you had heard growing up. The stories that Mandalorians were nothing but savages - hunting and preying on the weakest for a quick credit. No…They saved you. They destroyed the patriarchy that had held your home in an iron grip for centuries. Slaying the oppressors and setting you all free.

You heard your parents talking several weeks later over supper. Surprise in their voices at the fact that they didn’t take over your small village. They thought your village had taken a risk asking the clan of Mandalorians for aid and protection. However, after striking a seemingly win-win scenario for both peoples, you were left with benevolent leaders through the Mandalorians. In exchange for their protection and benevolent governing…all your village had to do was help provide. No slaves, no pillaging, no killing. They didn’t even live in the village with you. Instead, they built their own small community just a few short miles away. Close enough to come to your aid, should anything happen, but far enough away that you honestly forgot about them from time to time. It has been a peaceful existence in every sense of the word.

Until recently.

You have grown into adulthood since then. Yet, despite all the Mandalorians have done and continue to do, there are still those who look down upon the Clan close by. You fight to bite your tongue as a small group of men do nothing but spit scathing words about the people who liberated your home. You find it’s easier to ignore them if you continue to strike the orange metal beneath your hammer, the shrill sound of metal meeting beskar fills your ears instead of their foul lies.

Your father never had a son. And when the mandalorians came and discovered your father could forge and reform beskar…he needed someone to help him. Only a select few in the entire galaxy could forge the rare steel, and with the increase in demand, a hammer was placed in your hand as a teenager. Much to your mother’s chagrin.

_“She’s a girl,” you heard your mother bite one evening from your bed, “She has no place in the forge. She should be working alongside Cassia in the bakery or Samantha in the tailors. Not hammering away at steel all day.”_

_“Enough!” your father barked, “I don’t want to hear it. The mandalorians need forged beskar. And I’m the only one besides their own armorer who knows how to do it. What happens when I die, hm? What then? Our strongest trading with the people who protect us - who **saved** us - is gone,” he sighs, and you hear the tell tale creak of wood as he sits at the kitchen table, “She will learn my trade. That’s final.”_

That was years ago. You love what you do, you’re good at it, great even. But it still hurts when you hear the teasing whispers of the other women of the village. Laughing at the soot that covers your cheeks after a long day and the black beneath your fingernails that you can never seem to scrub away.

“Soon you’re going to be better than me,” you snap your head up from your work, your reverie broken as your father leans against the railing of the pavilion where the forge is located. “To think, my own daughter stealing my profession right from under my nose,” he teases.

You shake your head, letting out a chuckle as you look up from the glowing metal in front of you. “You know I could never be better than you, dad,” you say truthfully, “But I am getting pretty good.”

You take the piece of armor from the table and submerge it in the water basin beside you, smiling at the familiar sizzling sound it produces. Once it’s cooled, you pull it from the water and place it back on the table to show your father. It’s an intricate piece - a pauldron with the signet of a rancore embellished on the side. The man before you hums in approval.

“Paz Vizsla requested it himself,” you tell him proudly, “Apparently one of his foundlings finally earned their signet, and he wanted _me_ to do it. Personally.”

At the mention of the Clan Leaders closest advisor, your father falls silent. And you fear that you’ve somehow screwed up.

“He’s Clan Leader Djarin’s closest companion,” you tell him, as if somehow that will help your father’s mood shift, “I probably should have asked before I just accepted right?” you huff in frustration, “ _Maker,_ I’m so stupid -!”

“Stop,” Your father’s voice is firm as he speaks and he finally steps around the barrier separating you two to walk to the far side of the pavilion. His features hold nothing but contemplation as he gazes out across the chartash fields behind your village, his eyes falling to the path that leads to the clan’s community.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he assures you, letting out a long sigh, “There’s just something we need to discuss soon. Something important.”

You look at him confused, “Something important?” you ask.

He’s silent for a moment, before he speaks again, “You have a choice to make,” he finally says, “But it _is_ a choice. There will be no negative repercussions from me or your mother or the other party involved no matter what your answer is. You _must_ know that.” his words are almost pleading now as he turns to you, hands resting on your shoulders, “But it is a decision you _have_ to make on your own.”

Brows furrowed even deeper in confusion, you bring a hand up to rest on one of your fathers, “Dad, just spit it out, what in maker’s name do I have to decide that’s so important?”

Your father looks at you now, face serious, “It has to do with Clan Leader Djarin. He came to your mother and me a few days ago to speak with us,” he tells you, “He told us to talk to you about -”

A bellowing call of your father’s name kept him from continuing further. You looked over to see the marshal of your village waving your father over, an impatient look on his face. Your father’s lips fall into a thin line at the interruption, and he sighs, pulling away from you.

“We’ll finish this discussion when your mother gets home from the market.” you go to argue, but he stops you, “I promise.”

Your mouth snaps shut and you nod, watching as your father gives you a terse nod and walks off. You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, and brought a shaking hand up to your forehead.

_What in the kriffing hell have you done now?_

* * *

You returned to your work as soon as your father left, finding peace in the repetitive nature of smithing. However, your mind keeps wandering back to the conversation with your father. And more importantly…Din Djarin.

He isn’t a stranger to you, yet you wouldn’t exactly consider him a friend either. You don’t know what you would classify your relationship as, just that it’s unique and every interaction is utterly baffling. You don’t even know if he was with the Clan when they came all those years ago. Your first time seeing him was when he was named clan leader after the former one passed away. You stood behind your father as he offered the new fearsome leader a gift - a carefully crafted chestplate, made of pure beskar. An expensive gift, that the new clan leader gratefully accepted.

_“To a long and peaceful reign,” your father tells him, watching with bated breath, as the man before you inspects his work. It’s hard to get any kind of read on him with the shiny beskar helmet covering his face, but he eventually nods in approval._

_His voice is smooth and deep as he speaks, the modulator in his helmet adding a slight rasp to his words, “I’ve heard of your capabilities in forging Beskar,” he says, “Now I know that the praise is true.”_

_You thought the interaction was over, ready for the imposing and slightly intimidating figure to move down the line of villagers waiting to express their thanks and gratitude. However, your father was not ready to end the conversation there. He knew you were painfully shy, and ready to let your father take all the credit for the beskar chestplate so you wouldn’t have to speak to the new leader. So he took matters into his own hands._

_“It wasn’t all my doing,” your father admits, placing a hand on your shoulder and bringing you to his side, “My daughter actually did most of the work.”_

_The black visor turns to you now, and he tilts his head in what must be contemplation. Or was it curiosity? You didn’t have time to dwell on the idea before you offered a respectful bow of your head, choosing not to say anything in fear of stumbling over your words._

_Din regards you for a moment, before his helmet tilts down in a small nod, “It’s good work,” is all he says before turning to your father again, “I’ll want to speak with you more about supplying weapons and armor - we’ll supply beskar and credits in return.”_

_And without waiting for a reply, he handed the gift off to another mando for safekeeping and strode down the lane, cape fluttering behind him._

After that, you never saw Din without the chestplate on, proudly wearing it wherever he went. In fact, he’s always fully covered when you see him. But you can always tell him apart from the other Mandalorians. His armor lacks the paint that the others seemed to have, the pure beskar almost blinding you any time you look at him. The layers beneath his armor are a dark brown color with some black here and there. But what always enables you to pick him out from the crowd is the cloak he wears and the various necklaces placed around his neck, all symbols and statuses of prowess in battle no doubt. The cloak is a rather ambitious thing. Long black material that barely brushes the ground, lined with a beautiful fur around his collar and shoulders. It’s a status symbol, just like the necklaces you always wonder about. You always wonder what the different strands mean, if each bead was a kill or if the mythosaur skull on the shortest necklace is a sign of his position as clan leader. Yet, despite the importance of these embellishments, you always did find it quite amusing how they tinkle and clack against his chest plate whenever he walks. You never thought he could sneak up on anyone with those things around his neck acting like a cattle bell.

Until he snuck up on you.

_“I never did get your name.”_

_His voice startles you from your work, causing you to drop the hammer in your hand, and the sword you were crafting to fall alongside it on the floor. You jump away from the glowing red steel, not ready to get branded by scorching metal anytime soon. You look up from your ruined piece, ready to scold whoever snuck up on you for setting you back hours on this project. However, when your eyes fall to an all familiar beskar helmet, your mouth goes dry. You immediately stand up straight, and bow your head in a respectful manner._

_“Clan Leader Djarin,” you gasp out, “I-I didn’t think that - I wasn’t ready for-” you bit down on your lip harshly. Cursing your nervous nature before stooping down to grab your dropped items and tossing them in the water basin to cool the metal. “I’m sorry.”_

_The man chuckles, and shakes his head, “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, taking a few more steps into the forge and looking around at the large space._

_You give him a small smile, “It’s alright,” you tell him, “What can I do for you?”_

_Din looks at you now, and though you can’t see it, he’s smiling under his helmet as he speaks, “I never got your name. From the first time we met?”_

_Your eyes widen in realization. That meeting was weeks ago, you didn’t even think he gave you a second thought. Yet, he came all the way to the village for whatever business he needed, and thought to come ask for your name?_

_“My name?” you asked quietly._

_He lets out a chuckle, and even though it’s muffled by the helmet, you can’t help but smile at the small sound. “Yes,” he confirms, “Your name. I thought I should know the name of the woman who has been forging my warriors’ armor. And my own,” he tells you, gesturing to the chestplate he currently wears._

_You stare at him for a moment. Completely baffled as to why this fearsome warrior, the clan leader, cares enough to ask for your name. **Your name.** The village outcast who no man will come near because you’re not ‘a lady’. The woman who gets made fun of by others. The shy little mouse who can’t even seem to talk to one of the most important men in the area…you?_

_Din can seemingly sense your inner turmoil. So, he offers you something._

_“You tell me your name, and I’ll give you something in return,” he offers simply._

_His words break you from your swirling thoughts, and you take a quick breath before nodding and giving him your name in small whisper. You aren’t even sure he hears at first, and open your mouth to repeat it. But the small yet reverent mumble of your name back to you in a deep timbre, stops you._

_The man nods, seemingly appeased at the information as he stands a bit straighter and places a hand casually on his belt, “My name’s Din. Din Djarin.”_

_And before you can respond to this seemingly precious gift, he’s turned on his heel with a parting nod and strides out of the forge. Leaving you with more questions than ever._

After that, it feels like Din has been a familiar albeit sporadic presence in your life. Many months have passed since your trading of names, and even though you thought that would be the end of it, you were proven very wrong. He kept coming back. Sometimes for business, sometimes to just talk to you under the guise of observing your work. But most recently, things have changed. He’s started to act different around you, becoming more relaxed, laughing more, leaving fleeting touches here and there. You feel a sense of shame and frustration build in your chest as you think about these things and the feelings you’ve started to develop for the one man who is unobtainable. You never expected for his laughter to leave butterflies in your stomach or his lingering gaze to make your heart flutter. You never thought your skin could burn where his gloved fingers brushed against the small of your back or your wrist when he had placed the thin beskar band there just a few weeks ago.

_“A gift.” he told you simply, as he snapped the metal into place on your wrist, his hand lingering there a moment longer than necessary as he looked up at you._

_You looked down at the intricate inscription on the outside, foriegn letters that made no sense to your eyes. “I don’t understand what this says,” you tell him honestly, fingers grazing over the etchings before brushing against his own gloved digits._

_His fingers still their ministrations on your wrist as he stares at you. You’d like to think that if he wasn’t wearing the helmet you would be able to see an adoring sparkle in his eye. But you don’t dwell on that too long, because his hand not enclosed around your wrist comes up to gently tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his thumb wiping away what’s probably a smudge of soot from your cheek. You both are locked in this moment for what feels like eons. Just gazing at one another with your hand resting in the furs of his cloak as his hand lays on your cheek gently._

_“You’ll understand the words one day,” he says softly, breaking the spell and pulling away from you so fast it’s almost dizzying._

_And once again, you are forced to stay in place as he walks away…cloak billowing out behind him as he does._

A sharp ringing sound followed by a resounding crack of your hammer against stone is what forces you from your memories. Your eyes shoot down to the work below you, only to see that you had managed to snap the blade you were hammering in half, the central ridge and point of the blade lays on the floor, while the rest sits on the anvil. You sigh.

He shouldn’t be having this effect on you. It shouldn’t matter that he touches you softly and laughs with you and speaks to you kindly. It shouldn’t matter that after giving you such a beautiful gift you haven’t seen him in weeks. It shouldn’t matter, because it _can’t_ matter. Din is the Clan Leader, a powerful and skilled warrior and important figure for his people. And you’re just…you’re _aruetii._ An outsider. A foreigner. Both to the Clan and even in your own village. You don’t know much Mando’a…but you’ve had that word spat at you enough to learn its meaning.

You shove back the tears you feel burning at the backs of your eyes, and stoop to pick up the shattered blade. You might be an outsider to those around you, but you still have work to do. And you find some comfort in the fact that you still have your family, and even a few kind Mandos who treat you right.

You have just thrown the broken pieces of metal back into the large pot to be melted down again, when one of those Mandos’ voices meets your ears, calling your name.

You turn, to see Paz Vizsla and another Mando you don’t know standing at the entrance to the forge, hands resting casually by their sides.

“Paz?” you ask, on a first name basis with the blue warrior after multiple visits from him. “What is it?” you ask, picking up a rag to wipe your hands as you walk over to the pair, “Come to place another order? I was actually just working on-”

Paz holds up a hand, silencing you as he speaks, “We’re not here for blacksmithing business today,” he says, shifting on his feet slightly, “Clan Leader Djarin wants to see you. _Immediately_.”

Normally, the name of the man you’ve become so fond of would bring a smile to your face. But with your father’s earlier words ringing in your head, and the serious tone of Paz’s voice, a dreadful feeling settles itself in your stomach.

You nod hesitantly, removing your blacksmith apron and going to move around the pair towards your home, “O-okay,” you stutter out, “Let me at least go wash up a bit before, I wouldn’t want to-”

The mando you don’t know shoots a hand out to grab your upper arm firmly, keeping you from going any further, “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Let’s go,” she snaps, her words a final command as she lets go of your arm and walks past you and Paz towards the clan’s community.

You look up at Paz, worry etched prominently into your features, and he tilts his head sympathetically. “Don’t worry, little one,” he says kindly, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before motioning for you to walk beside him as you begin your journey to see Din.

* * *

So many questions run through your mind as the three of you complete the short trek to the Mandalorian community. But, in fear of the answer or in fear of not receiving one at all, you stay silent. Hoping that you will get answers from Din soon enough. After what feels like ages to you, but was not even an hour’s journey, you see the great hall come into view.

While you had only been to the Mandalorian community a few times, you will never forget the massive stone structure. All the times you’ve been there - whether it was for celebrations or meetings with your father, it was always full of people milling around, and voices bouncing off the stone walls. Fires blazed in sunken pits in the floor, providing the surly cold building with warmth and light.

Which is why you feel a sense of unease settle in your chest when the large wooden doors of the building are pushed open. The fires are still blazing, but there are no people milling about. No raucous laughter or pleasant hum of conversation filled the large hall. Instead, all you could hear were your company’s footsteps and the hushed voices of conversation further into the building. And your eyes widen upon seeing where the only other sound is coming from.

It’s Din.

But he looks nothing like you’ve ever seen before. He sits upon a great stone throne, mando’a lettering etched into the large slab behind his head and down the arms of the structure. He sits a few feet higher than you and your companions do, the large chair elevated on a stone platform with several stairs leading up to the top. However, the throne isn’t what strikes you the most. It’s Din himself that seems to suck the breath from your lungs and makes your heat leap into your throat.

Instead of his usual head to toe ensemble of armor and under layers, he is unusually bare. Tanned skin is revealed to you as his shirt has been removed, laying out the dark ink etched into his skin for all to see. The signet of a mudhorn is sketched onto his left pectoral, and a series of mando’a letters and words run down his ribs on both sides before disappearing into the waistband of his pants. You can see even more tattoos curling up above his chest and sliding up towards his shoulders, but they are obstructed from your view by the ornamental cloak he wears and the necklaces dangling from his neck.

He sits nothing like you’d expect of a clan leader, yet he exudes more confidence and power from his nonchalant posture than any leader you’ve ever met. He is leaned back into his throne as he converses with another Mando. One foot planted firmly on the floor while the heel of the other rests on the edge of the very seat he sits in. One arm lays on the arm rest provided, while the other sits on his propped up knee, his gloved hand gripping restlessly onto a tall beskar spear. A formidable weapon you’ve never laid eyes on before. Just when your eyes trail from the spear back up his arm, catching sight of even more dark ink disappearing beneath his vambrace, he spots your entourage.

He sits up straighter as you approach, dismissing the mando he was speaking to with a wave of his hand. Only when you are led to the bottom of the steps does he speak.

“I’m glad you came,” he says earnestly, “I know it’s probably very soon after you’ve learned of the arrangement but your father told me-”

“What arrangement?” you blurt out, cutting off the Clan Leader as confusion seeps into your eyes as you gaze up at him, “I don’t know why I’m here! My father spoke of some decision earlier today but he never got the chance to tell me and now-” you have to fight back the tears of frustration that sting your eyes, “What is going on?” you plead.

A deadly silence falls over the room. The three mandalorians share what you perceive to be shocked looks with one another, their helmets tilted in silent communication.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Din barks an accusatory sentence in what you assume to be Mando’a. And before long, the empty hall is alight with bickering and arguing in a language you can’t even begin to understand. They shout back and forth with one another, voices loud and booming in the large stone space, and your eyes dart from Din back to the mandos at your side as you try desperately to understand what is happening.

“ _val vaabir na kar'taylir? (She doesn’t know?)_ ” Din spits, leaning forward in his seat in astonishment.

Paz moves up one step, “ _gar shi min mhi at ve'ganir kaysh. vi did na haa'taylir meh val rucuyir beld. (You just sent us to get her, we did not check to see she was told.)_ ” Paz explains, crossing an arm over his chest and bowing his head in apology.

“I’m sorry Clan Leader Djarin, I did not-”

The other mando who had accompanied you stepped forward now, cutting Paz off as she speaks, “ _Shi rejorhaa'ir them jii bal cuyir jaon ti bic. (Just tell them now and be done with it)_.” She hisses, clearly agitated that this is even a problem in the first place.

Din shakes his head, a frustrated sigh slipping through his helmet as he runs a free hand over his head, “ _Te ru'kir ganar been told o'r a jate'shya ara- (She should have been told in a better way-)_ ”

The woman speaks up once more, this time cutting off the clan leader himself, “ _val cuyir **aruetii** , (she’s an outsider),_” she spits, and you feel yourself shrink away from the familiar insult, “ _tion'ad mirdir meg val vhants - (who cares what she wants-)_ ”

The ear piercing shrill of beskar against stone fills your ears and quiets the woman instantly. Din practically jumps from his seat on the throne as he slams the butt of his spear into the floor.

“You will hold your tongue,” he seethes, voice eerily calm as he speaks down to the woman, “She may not be one of our own, but I am your leader and you _will_ show me and my guests respect. _Am I clear,_ Astrid?”

The woman, who you now know is named Astrid, nods sternly. Crossing her arm over her chest and dropping into a kneel, “Yes, Clan Leader Djarin. It won’t happen again.”

Still looking at Astrid he continues, “No, it won’t.” he confirms, before once more falling into his native tongue, “ _vi cuyir not te demagolka guuror te gehat'ik gotal'ur mhi dayn at cuyir, (We are not the monsters the stories make us out to be,)_ ” he tells her before finally turning until his visor falls on you, “She has a choice.”

All eyes are on you now, and you find it hard to speak as you feel like your entire body is shaking from this exchange. Finally, you find your voice, even if it is just a mere whisper.

“What choice? What arrangement?” you ask, completely exasperated as confusion runs rampant in your mind.

Din sighs, a tired sound that just barely slips out as he slumps back into his throne. You can hear the faint creaking of leather as his grip on the spear in his hand tightens as he tries to decide what to say.

“A marriage arrangement,” he tells you finally, “You are to be my _riduur -_ my wife,” he tells you, before quickly adding, “With your consent.”

Your eyes widen at the revelation, and it feels like you can’t even think. Your heart rate quickens, blood rushing in your ears as your breathing picks up as well. A drop of sweat slides down your temple and you just barely register Din standing from his Throne and descending the stairs as he sees your panic.

But through the haze, you have just a sliver of clarity and your lips are moving before you can even fully process what you are saying and -

You agree.


End file.
